“I hope it seems like he likes me,” she said, trying to walk a fine line of truth with her words. “Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen when people date?” She reached into the cabinet behind her and grabbed six champagne flutes.

“It’s funny, though. It almost seems like he’s trying to hide it. Like how he kept sneaking looks at you during dinner,” Melinda said.

Corinne pointed. “I saw that, too!”

Jordan turned around. “I didn’t notice any unusual amount of looks.” She thought about this for a moment. If Nick had been looking at her, she supposed it was just part of the role he was playing that night.

“I like how he calls you Rhodes,” Corinne said.

“It is my name.”

“Yeah, but it sounds affectionate when he says it. Playful.”

“Flirty,” Melinda agreed.

“Naughty,” Corinne said.

The two of them burst into giggles.

Oh boy. Jordan took a sip of the moscato, thinking she was going to need a second round pronto if Melinda and Corinne continued the post-dinner debriefing much longer. She tried to diffuse their interest without giving anything away. “Look, Nick is a complicated person. Perhaps we should let this one simmer for a while before we read too much into his every move.”

Melinda leveled her with a stare. “Jordan. You don’t have to pretend around us. It’s okay to admit that you like this guy.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I brought him here tonight. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

Both Corinne and Mel waited expectantly.

Jordan caved and gave them what they wanted, sensing there would be no moving on—and no peace for the rest of the evening—until she did so. “All right. Sheesh. I like the guy, okay?” She waited for the sinking feeling that would come with the knowledge that she’d just told her friends another lie.

It didn’t happen.

She must’ve been getting better at this secret-agent-accomplice thing than she’d realized.

Eighteen

“WHAT DO YOU mean, you haven’t found anything on Stanton?” Xander demanded to know. “You must not be looking hard enough.” If Mercks thought he was paying four hundred dollars an hour for piss-poor surveillance, he had another think coming.

It was Sunday morning—over a week since Mercks had begun his assignment. They were back in Xander’s office, where he conducted all of his business. With the security system he’d installed to protect his cellar, it was the one place he always felt secure.

“Trust me, we’ve been looking.” Mercks was seated in one of the chairs in front of Xander’s desk. “First we started with the basics: Nick Stanton has no criminal history, good credit, and a clean driving record. He owns a condo in Bucktown valued at just under a half million, and pays his mortgage on time. Between checking and savings accounts, stocks, mutual funds, convertible securities, and bonds, he’s worth about another million. No outstanding debts, no unusual draws from his bank accounts.

“Next we moved on to personal information: he’s an only child, both parents are deceased. No ex-wives or kids, at least none that we could find. He grew up in a midsized town just outside of Philadelphia, and went to Penn State. Majored in management through the College of Business. Nothing remarkable in his academic records. Came to Chicago about a year after he graduated and has lived here since.”

“What about his job?” Xander asked. “This real estate business or whatever that he owns.”

Mercks nodded. “Stanton is the sole owner of a real estate investment company that owns rental properties. He’s got a small office in Lakeview that appears to be staffed with two other employees, at least from what we’ve seen. Stanton gets to work every morning by eight thirty, leaves at six. Takes a half-hour lunch around one, seems to favor Jimmy John’s. Not sure if he likes turkey or roast beef—that didn’t seem necessary to the report.”

Xander scowled, not appreciating the humor. “And his relationship with Jordan?”

“We’ve been tailing him ever since your party, just like you asked. He spent that night at her house, and then they went for coffee in the morning. He saw her again yesterday evening—they had dinner with some of her friends who live in Andersonville. He brought her back to her house around midnight and spent about twenty minutes inside before he left.”

“He didn’t spend the night?” Xander asked.

“Maybe she had a headache.”

“Maybe she’s getting bored with him.”

Mercks shrugged. “You can decide for yourself. We’ve taken photos of the two of them together.” He tossed a manila envelope onto the desk. “They’re chronological.”

Xander pulled out the photographs. The first one in the stack was of Stanton and Jordan on the night of his party, judging from the purple dress he saw peeking out from underneath her coat. They were kissing on her front stoop and looked far from bored with each other.

He leafed through the remaining photos. Jordan holding hands with Stanton as they came out of a Starbucks. Stanton with his arm around her waist, whispering something in her ear as they waited on the front porch of an unfamiliar house, presumably her friends’ place. The final image was of Stanton, leaving Jordan’s house as she watched from the doorway.

“That last photo was taken last night,” Mercks said.

Xander put the photographs back into the envelope and set them off to the side. “I’m not convinced. And let me tell you why. I know a lot of people in this city, and I’ve been asking around about Nick Stanton. No one’s ever heard of the guy. So I’m supposed to believe that this nobody, who knows nothing about wine, comes out of the blue and just so happens to walk into Jordan’s store and sweep her off her feet? I’m not buying it.”